Living Nightmare
by Emmeebee
Summary: The grogginess fell away as his memory came rushing back. He had to get away.


A/N: Written by Chaser 1 for the Montrose Magpies for QLFC Round 1.  
CHASER 1: Write a genre you've never written before (my choice: horror)  
Optional prompts: (object) knife; (setting) Department of Mysteries; (quote) A fit, healthy body - that is the best fashion statement. - Jess C. Scott  
Not epilogue-compliant.  
Word count: 2997 on Google Docs  
Thank you so much to Cookies-and-Ink and Emiliya Wolfe for your wonderful betaing.

* * *

Thunder clapped, piercing the silence of the study. Draco flinched at the noise. Sighing, he pushed the book away from him. It was nearing three in the morning, and he wanted nothing more than to go to bed. His head was pounding, and his eyes felt like they were made of sandpaper. But every time he tried to sleep, he was confronted with nightmares of the war and of what might have happened had Potter not defeated the Dark Lord. Once a week, he took a Dreamless Sleep Potion to force his body to rest, but he couldn't use it more often since it was highly addictive; every other night, he stayed up until he was too exhausted to dream—which was usually about sunrise—before staggering to bed.

Draco knew his mother wasn't impressed. As much as she loved exploring the newest trends in clothes, she had always maintained that the first step to looking good was simply being fit and healthy. His physical endurance was still high—years of Quidditch training and carting books up several flights of stairs didn't fade overnight—but it was clear to anyone who looked that the war had taken its toll on him. He knew it hurt her pride to see him so obviously suffering.

Taking a deep breath, he forced his thoughts from his mind. All they would do was send him into a guilt spiral, which would make it even harder for him to calm his mind.

Standing, he stretched his arms above his head until he felt his muscles pull. Letting his limbs fall back to his sides, he shot a furtive look towards the door, longing for bed.

A bolt of lightning flashed across the black sky, illuminating the room for the length of a heartbeat.

He froze, his hand going to his wand. For the briefest of moments, he'd thought he'd seen—

"Draco."

A chill swept down his back, and he shivered involuntarily. The low, dark voice was unmistakable. But she was _dead_ ; he'd seen her die.

"Aunt Bella?" It was an effort to force the words out. Part of him hoped his mind was just playing tricks on him, but somehow, deep down, he knew it wasn't. "How—"

Her wand lit up, bringing her beautiful, deadly, vicious face into view. Her hair was curly and untamed, but its wildness paled in comparison to the maniacal gleam in her eyes. Whatever sanity she might once have had was long since gone. "The Dark Lord shared _everything_ with me. Don't you think he showed his most loyal followers how to make a Horcrux?"

"I—"

"His is destroyed now. Potter, Weasley, and the Mudblood broke into my vault and saw to that. But that is of no matter; there are other ways to bring him back."

There was no way he could draw his wand and Disapparate before she stopped him. His only hope was to wait until she was distracted. "Why are you here?"

"Have you ever heard of the Vita Ritual?"

The blood rushed from his face.

"You're lucky." Her lips pulled out into a cruel smile. "When he returns, he will honour you as the one who died to bring him back to life."

Any thoughts of strategy fled from Draco's mind. Drawing his wand, he spun sharply on his heel. But before he could Disapparate, a burst of red light hit him in the side, and he lost consciousness.

-x-

Draco's eyelids were heavy. He must have fallen asleep on the lounge in the study; his head was sore, as if he had been sleeping at an odd angle. It didn't bother him. He hadn't dreamt; a little pain was a small price to pay for a decent rest.

He reached into his pocket for his wand so he could check the time and frowned when his arm moved through thin air. It almost felt as if there was nothing under him at all. And if he wasn't mistaken, he seemed to be _drifting_.

But that didn't make sense. The only way that could happen was if someone had cast the Suspension Charm—

The grogginess fell away as his memory came rushing back. Somehow, his aunt had returned from the dead, and she was planning to sacrifice his soul to the Veil in exchange for the Dark Lord's. Keeping his body as still as a rock, he opened his eyes in slivers, hoping she hadn't realised he had regained consciousness.

They were in a long, familiar hallway; he had been there with his father a number of times. It was near the courtrooms… which meant it was near the Department of Mysteries as well.

Tilting his neck back until the blood pounded through his head, Draco surveyed his aunt. On her left side, she was wearing a holster with an ornate, black-gemmed handle shaped like a snake peeking out of the top.

Draco mentally ran through what he remembered of the Vita Ritual. It wasn't much. He'd come across it in one of his father's books when he was searching for a way to repair the Vanishing Cabinet, but while he'd forced himself to skim every word in case something was useful, he hadn't paid much attention to it. All he remembered was that the caster had to find a victim with some kind of magical link to the target—a blood relationship, love, or, in his case, the Dark Mark—and stab them with a ceremonial knife before pushing them through the Veil.

That object had to be the knife. Somehow, he had to get it from her.

They passed through the threshold of the Department of Mysteries and found themselves in a circular room. The floor was made from the darkest marble, and the black tiles that lined the wall were broken only by doors and candles.

It looked nothing like any part of the Ministry he had ever seen.

The door closed behind them, and out of nowhere, a cold breeze swept through the room.

Draco fell. Unable to support himself, he hit the floor hard. The entire room seemed to spin from the impact. A sharp shock of pain ran through his back, but it felt no worse than a Bludger. As the enchanted wind settled, he blinked up at the ceiling until the room steadied once more.

The security wards Minister Shacklebolt had publicly commissioned in the aftermath of the war worked, apparently.

Drawing on the power of every sit-up he had done over the course of his school Quidditch career, Draco hauled himself up and onto his bare feet, immediately sprinting towards the door they'd just left. He had to get away. He had to tell—

The door swung open at his touch, but the room he barrelled into wasn't the long hallway they'd been in moments before. He squinted, his steps faltering, as he tried to take in his surroundings. It was like he had stepped into a diamond; light glittered around him, dancing to what sounded like the tune of a thousand ticking clocks. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he realised that his guess wasn't far off. Every available surface was filled with clocks of every kind imaginable.

Time: the most precious thing in the world, and the deadliest.

"Get back here!"

Draco had never seen such beauty, and if his aunt had his way, he never would again. He tried to slam the door shut, but she reached out and caught it before he could. Abandoning that fight, he turned and darted forward.

" _Impendimenta!"_

Ducking behind a grandfather clock, he watched as the spell shot down the aisle. Going back that way would be of no use; she would be on him in an instant. Spying a desk covered with watches and timepiece pendants, he crawled under it and came out in another aisle.

He rose to his feet, trying not to think about how the ticking sounded eerily akin to a countdown.

As tempting as it was to stay there, Draco knew he couldn't. Dead, alive, or whatever she was, his aunt was clever. It wouldn't take long for her to think of using a person-revealing charm. He had to keep moving.

He tiptoed through the shining labyrinth, hoping the ticking would cover the sound of his footsteps.

He was almost at the far end of the room when he heard a shout of victory. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his aunt at the other end of the aisle, her wand in hand. Throwing out any hope of sneaking away, Draco bolted for the door, zigzagging to avoid the spells as they exploded around him.

If he got out of this alive, he would get his life in order. He would listen to his mother's advice and talk to a Healer. He would—

Shoving the door open, he scurried through and slammed it shut behind him. Pressing his back against it, he used his weight to hold it closed as he surveyed the room, looking for anything that might be useful. This area was just as eerie as the last, but while the clock room been filled with uncanny magical light, this one was dark and dreary. Rows of towering shelves stretched out before him, lined with dusty, glimmering orbs. They stretched up so high that he couldn't see the ceiling.

The Hall of Prophecy.

Draco shivered. Whether it was because of the sudden drop in temperature or the knowledge that this was where his father had stood off against Potter and his cronies a few years prior, he didn't know.

Something crashed into the door, and he jolted forward before pushing back against it.

Maybe he deserved this. When he had first heard about the altercation, he had blamed Potter for putting his father and aunt in Azkaban, not realising how terrifying it must have been for the Gryffindor. Was this his penance?

When his aunt crashed into the door again, he readied himself. As soon as the pressure disappeared, he lurched forward, bolting along the wall before ducking into one of the rows and hurrying down it. After a few moments, a long _bang_ reverberated throughout the room as the door flew off its hinges and clattered to the ground.

Draco slowed to a stop. His heart was racing, and a thin layer of sweat had built up on his neck, but he forced his breathing to remain steady.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" his aunt called out in a singsong voice. "You never were any good at Hide and Seek."

That was true. He'd had such a short attention span as a child that he hadn't been any good at waiting for people to find him. Whenever he found a clever hiding spot, the first thing he'd wanted to do was brag about it. But he forced himself to remain still. His aunt was just trying to taunt him so he would make a noise and give away his position.

While he was quiet, she was breathing heavily. She never had been one for sports. If there was one thing that would save him, it would be that.

"If you come to me now, I'll make it quick," she added, her tone as wheedling as it could be while punctuated with huffs of exhaustion. "It doesn't even have to hurt."

Somehow, he doubted that.

"Fine. We'll do it your way, then."

He heard her go down a different row. Slowly, he shuffled back the way he had come. When he reached the end of the row, he glanced around the corner. The coast was clear. Before he could doubt himself, he tiptoed across the wide space, stepping back through the door and into the light.

A shout sounded from behind him, and Draco started to sprint, dodging around and ducking under clocks of every kind.

 _Tick, tock, tick, tock,_ they said.

 _Die, die, die, die,_ he heard.

He was being ridiculous. She was too far behind him to catch him, and he was faster than her. If he could make it back to the circular room and find the correct door—

Something slammed into him from behind, knocking him to the ground and holding him there with its weight. His breath fled on impact. Spluttering, he rolled onto his back—and found himself looking into the crazed eyes of his aunt. The moment he settled onto his back, her wand was pressed against his neck.

She hadn't put up any resistance to his move; for some reason, she must have wanted him to do it.

"H-How—?"

"Like I said, you were never any good at Hide and Seek." She smirked, and he was struck by the fact that there was no sign of the exhaustion he had seen earlier. "I was. And you're your mother's son; the moment you had the chance, you were going to double back."

"But I heard you," he said as his breath returned.

"Misdirection Charm. You don't still think Quidditch is the only sport out there, do you? I thought you would have grown out of that by now."

His stomach dropped. Twisting his body, he tried to throw her off, but she wrangled him back to the ground.

She was much stronger than he'd expected.

But also more distracted. Glancing down for a fraction of a second, he saw that the knife was still in its holster. After all, why use it to subdue him when she had magic at her disposal?

"Potter's going to find out about this," he said. When her eyes snapped up to his, he started moving his hand from his side to hers. "And when he does, he's going to kill you—for good this time."

"Maybe he will, but you won't be around to see it."

His hand closed around the hilt of the knife. Taking a deep breath, he feigned resignation as he eased it out of its holster. "There's nothing I can do, is there?"

"No," she said, sounding morbidly gleeful.

"Just promise me you won't hurt Mother."

Her face darkened, and she pushed her wand up until it pressed against his pulse point. "How about I promise you I _will_? She betrayed the Dark Lord. It's no more than she deserves."

"She only wanted to save me," he said. "With me gone, her loyalty will be—"

Interrupting himself, he shoved the knife up and into her chest. Her face twisted in horror, and she let out a cry of agony. Her spare hand reached down and grasped at the weapon, but it was too late. The magical enchantments on the knife meant it would kill in seconds. _"Avada Ked—"_

He batted the wand away and rolled her off him as the light left her eyes.

Letting out a slow breath, Draco lay still and tried not to cry. It wasn't for her; he had lost any sense of familial affection for his aunt years ago. It was for him. Even in his darkest nights, he had taken comfort from the knowledge that whatever else he had done, he had never killed anyone. Now, he didn't even have that anymore.

-x-

Draco tried to stretch his arms but couldn't move. Frowning, he opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by half a dozen Aurors and the Minister for Magic himself. He could remember the cracks of Apparation, but nothing after that _—_ they must have Stunned him as soon as they arrived. Straining against his invisible bonds, he looked around the dark room, desperate to see the body.

It was gone.

"Calm down, boy. She's dead," one of the Aurors barked out.

"Again," Minister Shacklebolt said dryly. "Perhaps you could explain that to us."

"Why am I restrained?"

"We just want to talk to you, then you'll be free to go," Shacklebolt replied, his conversational tone at odds with his sombre companions. "You can imagine my shock when the security wards went off in the middle of the night. They were designed to alert us if anyone died within the Ministry, but we didn't expect to ever have to use them."

"And I have to be restrained for this?"

"Until we confirm what happened and why you were found in the company of a woman who is now dead twice over, yes."

Draco yelped as pain stabbed at his forearm. It was burning like Fiendfyre, furious and uncontrolled and out to destroy everything in its path. It hadn't felt like that since the final battle.

Something was wrong.

An icy feeling settled in his chest, as if a Dementor had entered the room while he was thinking. "What did you do with the body?"

"Auror Henley is running tests."

The name was familiar, and Draco felt bile stir at the base of his throat. "Elizabeth Henley?"

"Yes. Do you know her?"

"We're acquainted. Specifically, we met at one of the Dark Lord's meetings."

The others in the room all tensed.

"She wasn't a Death Eater, but Mulciber was courting her, and everyone knew it was only a matter of time before she took the Mark."

He had, it seemed, underestimated his aunt yet again. He'd assumed she was working alone, but she always had been adept at staying five steps ahead of everyone around her. She must have recruited Henley as backup in case she failed. After all, while she would have preferred to be alive for her leader's return, she was fanatical enough that she truly would see dying for him as a privilege.

Draco was so _stupid_. The ritual didn't care _who_ the sacrifice was, just how they died. By killing his aunt with the ceremonial knife, he'd given Henley the opening to use _her_ as the sacrifice instead.

"We need to get out of here. _Now_ ," Draco said, panicked. The pain in his arm was getting more intense.

Deep in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries, the Dark Lord was calling his followers to him once more.

The Third Wizarding War was about to begin.

* * *

A/N: To clarify – here, Bellatrix knew about Horcruxes, but she was only aware of the one and didn't know it was even possible to make more.


End file.
